'Oh come all ye faithful' is one carol that is unlikely to be sung in the home of our next chief executive this Christmas.
Alcohol and mistletoe make for an interesting cocktail; just ask anyone who's walked down Lan Kwai Fong on their way to work recently. Shimmying down the hill on the party detritus like Chevy Chase sliding down the snow on a wok in Christmas Vacation is no mean feat. The bars are still lined with partied-out people who'd kiss anything after a full night of Christmas cheer.
Even if you haven't kissed someone you shouldn't, Christmas is the perfect foil (or tinsel) for family feuds. All year we put up with relative humidity, then it's a case of relative stupidity as we open the doors to let in family we might love, but not really like.
Some of the round-robin letters arriving from friends and family all over the world are just like marzipan: sickly sweet and laid on thick. Some senders might as well photocopy their bank statements and send them in the post. The Christmas (bad) form letter affords full bragging rights about houses, horses, holidays, cars, perfect children and expensive schools. If an overload of mince pies and mulled wine over the silly season doesn't leave you nauseated, these will.
And don't get me started on my imported Douglas Fir. It has no smell. The top of it looks like a spindle, akin to ET's finger. I wish it would go home. I suspect it's genetically modified. Dolly the Christmas tree. Ba Ba Humbug.